


Harriet The Spy Has Nothing On Me

by psychomachia



Category: Suri's Burn Book
Genre: Gen, Misses Clause Challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-23
Updated: 2012-12-22
Packaged: 2017-11-22 01:58:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/604560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/psychomachia/pseuds/psychomachia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Discretion. I cannot emphasize this enough. If you are so low class as to sell your own stories to the tabloids, I cannot trust that you will not fabricate lies about my services in an attempt to garner fleeting moments of fame. This is why I will never assist the Kardashians, no matter how much they plead (though if Penelope Scotland Disick wishes to make her escape and reclaim some semblance of a fulfilling life, I have some experience in the matter and will assist pro bono).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. If You Have To Ask, You Can't Afford It

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gloss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloss/gifts).



Faithful readers of my blog will know that I am le dernier mot in fashion, whose musings have inspired many a hapless soul to sartorially upgrade themselves (though sadly, many have remained unkempt and beleaguered). They know of my work in international diplomacy, defusing a number of situations that could have gone horribly wrong without my intervention. The world can count itself fortunate that I have chosen negotiation rather than making horrible movies as my talent. 

But what I have kept intentionally quiet until now, for reasons of modesty and national security, is that I also run a very exclusive and chic detective agency for select clientele. There are a few requirements that I specifically have if I am to take your case.

  1. Enough resources to pay my expenses (yes, sometimes I am forced to buy my own pave bracelets despite some rather obvious hint-dropping to my oblivious parents). Do not attempt to haggle on my fees; they are non-negotiable and you make yourself look worse.  

  2. Either a personal connection or a reference from a respected client – I will not take cases on for clients with no sense of discretion and style. (I'm looking at you, Willow Smith).  

  3. Discretion. I cannot emphasize this enough. If you are so low class as to sell your own stories to the tabloids, I cannot trust that you will not fabricate lies about my services in an attempt to garner fleeting moments of fame. This is why I will never assist the Kardashians, no matter how much they plead (though if Penelope Scotland Disick wishes to make her escape and reclaim some semblance of a fulfilling life, I have some experience in the matter and will assist pro bono).  

  4. A case of some intrigue or complexity. I will not take any matters relating to domestic disputes, suspected narcotic usage, or missing stuffed animals. I am not willing to bend on the last one, Skyler Berman. 



Of course, all these regulations have meant that while I take very few cases per year, the ones I do take on are grave matters whose solutions tend to remain sub rosa. However, I feel that it is time to share one of my most recent cases in an attempt to explain certain rumors that some unscrupulous tabloids may or may not be circulating in the near future. 

I had been taking a break from my cases to concentrate on my current academic pursuits; though I can clearly master any challenge thrown at me, convincing my classmates not to wear Uggs is a different matter. (When will this national nightmare end). So normally I would not have answered my private agency line. 

However, as readers are well aware of, when it comes to Cruz Beckham, I cannot say no. 

“Suri. Please help me.” And with these four words, I knew I would assist in whatever matter he gave me. He sounded frantic, not his usual cool Beckham self. 

“Cruz. Calm down.” 

“I think someone's following me.” 

Great, a paparazzi case. I dislike these almost as much as I dislike whatever Jessica Simpson is wearing on any particular day, but again, it's Cruz. “If it's a reporter, you know there are--”

“It's not a reporter. I think it's myself.”

While the prospect of two Cruz Beckhams is enough to make any observant girl happy, a more likely solution presented itself. “Cruz, if you're currently taking something...”

“No! I swear I'm not. It's someone who looks like me. I keep seeing them out of the corner of my eye everywhere I go.” 

His paranoia was making him less attractive by the minute. “Cruz--”

“He's here again! I have to go--” My phone showed the call was dropped. Given the quality of my phone service, it had to have been intentional. 

I tried redialing him, but it went straight to voice-mail. Naturally, I was concerned. If Cruz was taking something, I needed to stop him before he went down the path so many Lohans have gone before. So I did what I've never done before. 

I called Harper Beckham. This is not something I do frequently, given my general reluctance to put upon the Beckham family, but this was important. 

“Harper? It's Suri. I need to know if you've seen Cruz.”

“Cruz? He's right here.” That was unexpected. 

“I need to talk to him.” 

There was some static and then-- “Hello?”

“Cruz. I was worried. You just hung up.”

“I do not know what you mean. You have not talked to me today. I am fine. I need to go now. My family needs me.” For the second time that day, he hung up on me. And people wonder why I have such issues with him. 

Not to mention he sounded... robotic. Now I'm used to Victoria Beckham looking and sounding like a very advanced android, but Cruz? This was strange. 

So these were the facts:

  1. 1\. Cruz Beckham thought someone who looked like him was stalking him.  

  2. He hung up on me. Twice. No one does that to Suri Cruise without a very good reason.  

  3. Monaco Blue is such an uninspired color. They should have gone with Poppy Red. 



This meant an investigation was in order. I donned a rather delightful raspberry coat, informed my mother I had a study group (that poor woman is so unobservant), and surreptitiously began my preliminary research. (That playhouse will make things so much simpler for my agency). 

But after several phone calls to Cruz that went unanswered, a cursory search of street cameras that turned up nothing out of the ordinary, and a quick stop to Maison Kayser, I was where I started: fashionable and sought-after, but none the wiser as to what had happened to Cruz.

Then I saw the pink coat out of the corner of my eye.

I must explain that it's not uncommon to see others attempting to dress like me. In fact, it's to be expected. But someone with identical clothing and my haircut? Unacceptable. There can only be one Suri Cruise. 

And if there was a current trend in people attempting to foist their own cheap substitutions as the real thing, I would have to stop it. I refuse to accept imitations. 

I saw the pink coat again disappear around the corner. I went to follow it.

And that is when Violet Affleck grabbed me by the arm and dragged me into an alley.


	2. Contrary To Popular Belief, Ninjas Do Not Wear Yellow

I suppose I should stop and explain my rather complex relationship with Violet Affleck. It comes down to these three points:

  1. She dresses like she picked the first five things out of her closet and threw them on. If it was Anna Wintour's closet, it would not be as much of a problem, but unfortunately, it appear to be that of someone with access to the rubbish bin behind a thrift shop.  

  2. She is a huge nerd. Huge. I would not be surprised if she pulls a Portman and nerds it up at college.  

  3. She is the only person I trust when things start getting... complicated. 



The last point involves more sensitive issues of national security that I cannot divulge, as well a some rather nasty correspondence (and matching litigation), but suffice it to say, we have come to a detente wherein she handles matters of certain delicacy on the West Coast, while I take care of the East Coast. Sometimes, we do cross-coastal work, but for the most part, she sticks to one coast and I stick to the other now. 

So to see her on my turf? Either she was looking for another battle or...

“Suri. You have to be careful. They're looking for you.” 

“Who?” As readers well know, there have been many people who have followed me in my life: bodyguards, reporters, those creepy people my father unfortunately associates with. 

“They call themselves the Vanguard. I don't know who they are, but they've been kidnapping certain children and replacing them with doubles.” 

That was not the most insane thing to come out of Violet's mouth (I would put “Yes, I do want to wear those pajamas in public” as number one), but it was close. “I do hope that there's not some sort of plague that's causing these delusions. Because if so, that would explain a great deal about your fashion sense.” 

Violet rolled her eyes. “I'm not delusional. I've been investigating on behalf of Kiernan Shipka.”

Blasphemy! To have Kiernan go to Violet and not me. Well, as if this day could have been any worse... “Kiernan hired you?” The betrayal stung deeply.

“Well, she tried to a few days ago. She said someone who looked like her was following her, hung up her phone, and then when I called her back, she said nothing was wrong and that she had never talked to me. So naturally, I was concerned. I started calling around – most kids sounded fine, but Louis acted weird and apparently, Blue Ivy's gotten a little too attached to helicopters. I started to worry about you – you were fine on the phone, but still...”

Well, that explained that phone call from her. I wondered why she had asked me what I was wearing, but I assumed it was because she had finally decided to stop dressing like a vagabond. Clearly, this was not something that would happen. “So you just jetted out here and--”

“I told my mom I was hanging out with Dad for a while. Then I left a pillow in my bed, caught a plane, and...”

“And they believed it?” 

She rolled her eyes again. “If you haven't noticed, our parents aren't the most observant. Anyhow, I flew here, noticed you were being followed, and decided to get to you before anyone else did.”

This was all surprisingly coherent and forward-thinking of her. How someone so intelligent could dress the way she does would always be a mystery, but I have learned some problems have no solutions. “Well, Cruz also told me he was being followed. But doubles? Doesn't that sound a bit insane to you?”

“Coming from the girl whose father believes in a Galactic Confederacy?”

Touche. There are times when you cannot escape your parents' unfortunate delusions, be they the belief in Xenu or the tendency to wear leggings instead of pants. You can only hope to rise above. “Let's say I believe your 'interesting' theory. What were you planning as your next step?” 

“Well, we know your double's after you. If I can follow you, I can see if I can capture the double and get some information out of it. Maybe, we can find out where they've taken the other children.” 

It was preposterous, it was reckless, it was based on a ridiculous hypothesis with no actual evidence backing it up. It was in short, a Violet Affleck idea. 

And I was about to try it out. 

* * *

There is a knack to looking nonchalant in New York. A tourist cranes her neck, looking to see what street she's on, a businessman walks briskly, making no eye contract whatsoever, but a person out for a lovely stroll in Manhattan must vacillate between gazing at the wondrous Christmas displays in the window in some sort of drugged awe and dodging the well-meaning passers-by who keep asking her where her mother is. Honestly, if anyone needed someone looking out for their well-being, it was Katie Holmes. 

So here I was: wandering aimlessly while keeping my eyes focused for the double and trying not be distracted by Violet's glaringly yellow raincoat (so cliche and horribly bright at the same time) as she attempted to be the ninja she was not and hide. Then my phone rang. 

“Hello?”

“Hello, Ms. Cruise. I need you to do exactly as I say and do not alert your colleague as to your actions.” The voice was robotic, monotonous. 

“And if I don't?” 

“Then something unpleasant will befall a friend of yours.” 

I don't take kindly to threats, but I kept my cool. I have learned from experience that constant tantrums get you nothing, while sporadic and well-thought out ones get you ice cream. “Go on.”

“In two minutes, a taxicab will pull up beside you. The passenger in it will roll down the window and ask you where Central Park is. You will get into this taxicab and leave your colleague behind. If you attempt to deviate from this plan... well, you will soon see our power.” And for the third time in one day, I was hung up on. 

Note to self: institute proper phone etiquette when you take over the world. 

Then Violet came running over to me. I expected a question from her as to who called, but instead she blurted out, “They have my sister.”

And there it was. “Excuse me?”

“I just got a call from my sister's phone. She told me not to worry, but that she had a visitor who told her to get her sister to stop investigating and come home.” Violet was in tears. “They have my sister.”

Readers may know that I am no friend of Seraphina Affleck. That still does not mean I wish to see her life endangered, especially by creepy robotic strangers. “It'll be all right. I just need you to wait here and your sister will be fine.”

“How do you know?” 

“Trust me.” At least I could tell myself that I had repaid the debt I owed to Violet for the Chicago mess. I just hoped that my double would still retain my same sense of style, or else the fashion world would suffer the greatest blow since they decided Gwyneth Paltrow was a sartorial icon. 

The taxicab pulled up. The window rolled down. “Do you know where Central Park is?”

The last thing I saw as the cab pulled away was Violet's crying face, yelling my name.

She never could keep her composure.

* * *

That I should be abducted by aliens is not a surprise to me as it would be to anyone... ordinary. What surprised me was how mundane their spaceship was. For someone so selective in their kidnappings, they were remarkably boring in their choice of décor. 

After the taxicab ride and the merciful lack of conversation (honestly, what could I say to them besides  
“those are some very cheap suits” and “I know an excellent tailor”), I was led to a rather cramped shuttle pod and strapped in. The only good thing I can say for it was I didn't have to sit next to anyone.

The shuttle pod docked at their all white spaceship, which resembled an Apple dealership or that Star Trek movie (minus the lens flares). I thought about suggesting a bit of color, but reconsidered. Sometimes, you have to cut your losses with certain people and just let them learn for themselves how wrong their sense of style is.

I suddenly missed Violet. At least her lack of taste was creatively awful.

I was led into a room (again, all white) where a rather plastic-faced man sat. He offered me tea, which I declined as I felt I was more in need of answers. “Why have you taken all of us?”

“It has been determined that you are the Chosen Ones. We wish to bring you to Enlightenment by taking you to our home planet where you will learn our ways and become one of Us. As for the rest of the world, it will be destroyed as unnecessary trash.”

As much as I have bemoaned the current populace and their desire to make Britney Spears a celebrity, I refuse to see it destroyed by anyone. I would certainly never let a strange alien race bulldoze my home planet, destroy my Ferragamo handbags, and hurt my poor mother just when she's finally gotten free of her own captors. “I'm not going to go along with your plan.”

“I do not understand. Why would you refuse? You will be treated as one of us.” 

“And the rest of my family? My friends? My blog followers?” 

“They do not matter. Only the Chosen Ones matter.” He rose and before I could stop him, he walked out the door. It sealed behind him, leaving a blank white wall. 

This was going to be tricky.


	3. I Can't Believe They Let Her Near Anything Besides Pudding

I had tried feeling around for hidden catches. There were none.

I had tried looking for control panels. There were none.

I had tried kicking the door (I was desperate). I succeeded in scuffing my shoe. 

I was stuck in an all-white room in the middle of a spaceship that was moments away from destroying everything I loved, dooming me to a boring existence on an alien world where no one had ever even heard of Kate Spade or Hermes. 

This must be what living in the Midwest is like. (I joke, of course. I am certain my readers in even North Dakota have read Vogue). 

I heard a pounding from outside the hallway. I raised my handbag. If they were going to take me somewhere else, they would at least get a concussion from it. 

There was some faint muttering at the door and then it slid open. 

Readers, I can tell you this: I have never been so happy to see Violet Affleck as I did when she stumbled in, kicking aside the aliens that I could see strewn about her feet. “Suri!” 

I will not say we hugged, but there might have been a slight embrace, perhaps a moistening of the eyes as we reunited. Chalk it up to the fact that she was actually color-coordinating in an all white jumpsuit. “You're here! How did you find me?” 

“Well, I followed your tracker and--”

“You put a tracker on me?” 

“When I grabbed your shoulder after we first met. I figured you might try to go off on your own at some point.”

“You couldn't be sure that---”

“Chicago.” 

Would she always bring that up? Or would she replace it with... Oh, no. I had a horrible suspicion that years from now, when we were young adults attempting to avoid the horrible fate of Amanda Bynes and she wanted me to do a favor, she would say, “Remember that time I saved you from that alien spaceship. I want you to take Zumba classes with me.” 

“Fine. But how did you get up here?”

“After they let Seraphina go, I had her take my dad's spaceship and meet up with me so we can recon and find a way to save you.” 

“Your dad has a spaceship?” 

“Duh. He built it from the Argo plans.” 

“How did you get it away from him?”

“I told him we wanted to become directors just like him. He was so proud of us that he gave us the spacesuits as well.” 

“And I thought my parents let me get away with anything.” 

“Whenever I want something, I just tell them I want to see Daredevil and they get so distracted that they agree to anything to keep me from seeing it.”

* * *

We made our way down the hallway, kicking various aliens in the shins and then chopping them in the neck when they went down. I will say that my Krav Maga was far more effective than Violet's karate, but she acquitted herself decently enough.

“You were the last one we got. After I disabled the locks and sent a virus through their main computers, we found everyone else in other pods. Cruz carried Blue Ivy back while Kiernan has Louis. They're already on the ship.”

I kicked another alien in the head as we passed through another doorway. “Does this mean you let Seraphina pilot? Because I have serious qualms about riding in any vehicle she's in control of.” 

“Don't be silly. I would never trust my sister to steer a ship.” We reached where the aliens had first dragged me on and I could see more aliens littering the deck. Their pods appeared to have been bashed in with a great deal of violence and I could see an ungainly spaceship at the end. 

We ran towards it. The door opened. 

Up to then, I could tell you the three greatest moments of terror in my life:

  1. Seeing my mother in those “mom” jeans.  

  2. That spread my father did for W.  

  3. Chicago. 



But all of it paled in comparison to seeing Shiloh Jolie-Pitt peak her head out of the spaceship door, and say, “Let's kick it into gear! Yee-ha!”

The horror.... the horror.

* * *

I didn't say a word as I was led into the ship, Shiloh grinning maniacally as I passed by. 

“It was the only way,” Violet said. “They still consider Shiloh to be one of the Chosen Ones, so she had to pretend to be defecting in order to let us on their ship.”

I still said nothing as Cruz and Kiernan hugged me and helped me get into my seat. 

“Plus, she has excellent piloting skills and she picked up on steering a spaceship incredibly quick.”

I was still silent as we jerkily took off, jumping into hyperspace a few minutes later and avoiding the enemy ship blowing up behind us.

“If it wasn't for her smashing all their escape vehicles, we never would have made it out as cleanly as we did.”

Shiloh Jolie-Pitt was our only way home.

Let me repeat. SHILOH JOLIE-PITT WAS OUR ONLY WAY HOME!

I do not believe in capitals, but this situation clearly warranted them. 

I let out what I was later informed to be an incoherent scream of rage. “You let Shiloh pilot a ship! Shiloh! She has the attention span of a fruit fly on methamphetamines.” 

“Now listen...”

“She destroys everything she touches. She's probably breaking the controls as we speak.”

“That's a bit unfair...”

“You trusted our lives to someone who's too bored to have a five second cameo in her own mother's movie. Someone who can't decide if she wants to be a pirate or a cavalry officer. Someone who wears a neck-tie with a t-shirt!”

“I trusted your life and everyone else's to someone who cared enough to save you even though you insult her and me on a regular basis,” Violet said quietly.

That was a low blow. “I'm not insulting you. I'm instructing you.”

“It sounds the same to me.” 

“Then why do you even care?” I asked. “If I'm that horrible a person, why didn't you just leave me in that room and make your own escape? The world's not ending anymore and my parents wouldn't have known the difference between the double and me.” 

“I would have known. You're my best friend.” 

Despite all the fighting, the criticism, the differing opinions on when it's appropriate to wear leotards, she still considered me to be her closest friend.

To my surprise, I realized I felt the same. It was touching. It was amazing. It was...

“That's incredibly sad.”

Violet sighed. “I know.”

* * *

So that's the story of my alien adventure. We arrived home, no thanks to Shiloh's driving which left me with a sore neck for the next week. It would have been rather difficult explaining to our parents just what had happened, so we told them all we had the flu and they believed it. As for the doubles, they self-destructed when the ship did,

Adults these days are incredibly gullible. 

Cruz went back to looking unattainable along with the rest of his siblings. I will still always pine for him, and if he goes back to England, I will force him to:

  1. Invite me to hang out with William and Kate's baby. It will happen.  

  2. Find out what Adele's baby is named and tell me first. If he knows what 's good for him... 



Louis is still aloof and above it all, an admirable quality one should always cultivate. Remind myself to keep in touch with him as potential clients whom I actually like are few and far between.

Blue Ivy owes me, so if she ever has delusions of being better than me, I will just remind her that I saved her life. Plus, I still look better in helicopters than she does. 

I forgive you, Kiernan Shipka for calling Violet instead of me. But in the future, please let my number be the first one on your speed dial. Please?

Shiloh is still a maniac who dresses like a fraternity boy and needs to grow up and buckle down if she wants to have a future in her industry. I predict she will not and blame it all on her parents. 

And Violet? 

Readers, no matter what upcoming tabloids may tell you about a potential feud over Cruz or the possibility that I will never invite her into my playhouse, I will tell you this in secret. She is my partner in detective work and the one who saved my life when a lot of other people would hold petty grudges over my simple remarks about their lack of style.

She is probably my best friend. 

But she still needs to stop wearing those shoes.


End file.
